


stillness in woe

by aosc



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fateswap, M/M, oracle!Prompto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-08 12:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11082045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/aosc
Summary: Sing the carol of a young pharaoh, who slew Leviathan with one arrow.“Well. Altissia, though,” says Noctis. Prompto hears him shifting against his mouthpiece. “I’ll meet you there – that’s a promise.”





	1. PART I: LUCIS - THE COVENANTS

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to The Nyx Ulric Appreciation Hour. in which i woefully ignore most of the kingsglaive ending and make him drive prompto The Oracle around the country, saving people, hunting ~~things~~ gil. and astrals. hunting astrals.
> 
>  
> 
>  **TRACK LIST** (bc if you, too, feel like jamming along to what this brainchild of mine was conceived from. mostly murky, dark electronica and hip-hop. if that's your thing.)
> 
> stillness in woe − purity ring (title track)  
> who tells your story (from the _hamilton_ mixtape) − the roots feat. ingrid michaelson  & common (summary line track)  
> free − 6LACK  
> backslide − the naked and famous  
> grandloves − purity ring feat. young magic  
> how did i get here − ODESZA  
> rennen − SOHN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For Noctis,” says Prompto.
> 
> Nyx startles, as though he’s surprised that Prompto’s saying this. As though it comes as a surprise that, above else, elevated above duty, is Noctis. Prompto knows the line of thought well; runs along it himself, sometimes. It’s something that begets reason; it just is. His bond to Noctis, regardless of destiny, just is.
> 
> “For the King,” replies Nyx, after a few moments.

* * *

 

Prompto spits a glob of blood. He stares down the barrel of the gun, unwavering in his hand. His heart thuds with adrenaline, but not due to fear. He steels himself. Takes short breaths, attempts not to jar the fractured rib down his left side. Before him, the General tilts his steel-encased head.

 

“Little one,” he mocks, voice ringing, encased in echoes and enhancement, “You think yourself able to face me in combat?”

 

Prompto slides the lock on the gun backwards. Cocks it. Measures the trajectory of the bullet and lips at the whip of wind at this height. It’s about to rain. Tenebrae, ever enveloped in summer’s heady warmth, often gets rain. Summer rain, drenching but never chilling. Insomnia is another thing, wholly. It’s cold, and the taste of the imminent downpour is foreboding, rather than comforting. He says nothing. At his elbow, he predicts the Kingsglaive soldier - Nyx, is soon about to appear.

 

General Glauca stalks suddenly forward. Prompto steps equally back, thinks of what he has at his back and hopes that he’s not about to traipse off the nearest ledge. He thinks. The trajectory versus the wind versus the sure ricochet the bullet will make off the armor. It’s some sort of mythril steel, impossibly heavy, if he’s right, but appears to be naught for the General to carry.

 

“You are at your wits end,” says the General, “King Regis sacrificed himself for naught. A fool. So tell me, O Oracle; whatever will you do?”

 

The cruel mentioning of the King’s given name makes Prompto’s breath want to jangle stuck in his throat; makes him want to shudder, and look away. It burns like bile in the back of his mouth. But for this very reason, he can’t falter. Can’t give in to the mortality of curling away from hot shame, and into his fright. Prompto trains his gaze on the mass of armor and doesn’t blink, despite the forming of tears in the corners of his eyes. The wind has intensified. He has one shot at making this. There are four or five bullets fed into the chamber; but he only has the one. If he fails, that’ll be the end of it. He’d be sorely outmatched by just about any ranking soldier, Imperial or otherwise, and General Glauca may be the pinnacle, the very best of military skill brought to life.

 

He won’t take the Gods’ names in vain, but he wishes he’d had the space of a second, to pray. If not for himself, but for Noctis. If not for his own safety, but for his own life. If not for selfish reasons, for the divine. He would pray to see the light of dawn, if only to be able to escape the city, and set course for the Disc. To forge the first Covenant. For Noctis.

 

As it is, Prompto levels his gun with the General’s chin. To anyone, it looks like he’s attempting to hit him in the mouth. He counts the seconds, gaze tearing, but never wavering. The trajectory versus the wind versus the recoil -

 

And fires.

 

The recoil hits him in the wrist, makes it nick upwards with the force of a model he’s sorely little used to. He’s accounted for that, however. Had, in the second he pulled the trigger, tipped the gun slightly forward to make up for it. In the space of a second he’s flung himself backwards, and only catches the faintest glimpse of the bullet ricocheting off one of the steel beams hanging ajar from the closest, crumbled building’s foundation. He’d chanced on it working, but the surprised pitch in the General’s roar makes Prompto believe so. The bullet must’ve hit at least somewhat right, in a weak spot in the neck of the suit.

 

Prompto hears the General start up behind him, not a second too long. He throws himself off the jut of a chunk of build, only spaced a few meters above the ground of the next floor. He’s not trained for this, but knows that his knees can’t take the brunt of impact. He lands crouched, attempts to somehow catch his own weight in his shins and in his hips by making himself loose. His speed works to his advantage here; the General, though inhumanly strong, won’t be able to keep up.

 

He rounds a crumpling stairway, and veers sharply for where his sense of direction tells him is the far end of the building. They’d landed on the roof of a halved skyscraper, so Prompto hazards it only stands at about ten or fifteen floors. It lilts dangerously, and with every hulking step the General takes behind him, Prompto feels the naked foundations jarring out of their place. He rounds another corner, and comes out in a long, mostly untouched corridor. At the far end, what must’ve previously been a corner elevator, is now a bitten of chunk that falls into nothing. Where there’d been stairs, there’s now a steep ledge that steps into the thin air outside.

 

Prompto curses nothing in particular, but continues running. He’ll have to think on his feet. If he stops, he _will_ die.

 

Something sounds, even above the thunk of his own heart, even above the raze of the General at his tail. Prompto thinks it sounds like the buzz of an incoming slew of Magitek infantry, or the far off roil of the sea.

 

“Your Highness!”

 

Prompto skids to a stop just before the mouth of the broken off building swallows him. A few meters below, it can’t be more than five or seven - sits Nyx Ulric on the flat of a giant behemoth of a MA-X mech. The ‘Glaive tilts his head, and indicates for the mech, which appears dozing, non-lethal. “You comin’?”

 

Prompto actually lets his eyes shutter for the barest moment. A five meter drop is most definitely something that can prove lethal. The human body isn’t equipped with the durability to withstands a whiplash recoil of that height. He counts his breaths. The low hanging sky, grey with foreboding and with the weather, will open up at any second. There is a buzzing in his limbs that proves it. Also - the General is rounding the corner, jogging lightly, though Prompto suspects it’s his fastest. His heart will beat out of his ribs. If he gasps for breath, which he wants to, he’ll probably break the rib cleanly off. Which he will at any rate - he’s about to jump off a five storey building.

 

“Highness, c’mon, we don’t exactly have the time to wait around for the sun to start shining!”

 

Prompto crosses his heart. “May the Hexatheon hear my prayer and accept it as a token of my faith,” he mutters. The jarring noise, the rumble in the floor, comes closer. The General’s breath, though not yet labored, needles through the voice distorter imbued in his helmet.

 

Prompto counts to five, but half seconds, so in reality, it’s only about two and a half second -

 

Then he jumps.

 

Prompto doesn’t, honestly, believe in luck; luck is humanly constructed make-belief that mocks the pre-destined. It’s a vice for people to grab onto when you can’t place your faith in the Gods and what They have decided. But, as he lands in a tumble, one ankle twisting awkwardly, the snap of his lower left rib breaking, but with Nyx’ warm palm snatching his in transient-shoulder backwards - maybe he can understand how it’s become a phenomena.

 

The mech beneath them pitches forward into a gangly trot. Nyx looks at Prompto out of the corner of his eye, steadies him next to himself. “Easy there,” he says.

 

Prompto gasps for breath, bites down on his bottom lip until he tastes a blubbering of blood. His now broken rib grinds down into the bottom of his left lung with each step the mech takes. He grits his jaw. “It’s actually about to rain,” he says.

 

Nyx looks slightly piqued. “Okay,” he replies, slowly, “If you say so.”

 

Prompto pulls his twisted ankle to himself. “You said the sun might start shining,” he explains, “It won’t.”

 

Nyx snorts. “Figure of speech, Your Highness. Wasn’t talking about the weather.”

 

“I figured,” says Prompto, and attempts to smile through the pain, “Just – take me at face value, ’Glaive.”

 

“Right,” says Nyx, and adds his mandatory, “Your Highness.” He’s got his left hand buried in the mech, a twisted display of mechanical lobotomy. He indicates the way forward through the ruined, but desolate, cityscape, “Sorry for the detour. Figure it’s safer to take the long road around, rather than – y’know, run into trouble cutting through.”

 

“I wouldn’t know whether this is the long or short way,” says Prompto, “I’m trusting you to know your way around your city.”

 

“I suppose you’re right about that,” says Nyx, “The – not knowing. Can’t speak for you trusting me. I don’t exactly have a spot free track record so far.”

 

“I’m alive,” says Prompto, a little needling. He hasn’t felt bodily pain like this since his Ascension.

 

Nyx chuckles, humorlessly. “Kind of you to point that out. You were doin’ just fine without me.”

 

Prompto raises an eyebrow. “Are you always this self deprecating?”

 

Nyx shrugs a little. “Mostly happens when my city’s been invaded and ruined, my king killed, and my comrades declared themselves traitors to the Crown. I’m pretty cheery otherwise.”

 

Prompto says nothing. He breathes shallowly, and attempts to blot out the sadness that’s creeping into him and steeling itself in his heart and shoulders. The despair that will engulf him, if he allows it. This isn’t the end, he has to remind himself of – this is the beginning of the ascension of the True King. He reminds himself of that no matter how the events play out, the end game will be just the same.

 

*

 

Nyx is a pragmatist at heart. It does wonders to travel with someone like that, in the midst of a country ravaged by open conflict, Prompto finds.

 

The first stop they pit, once they’re well out of the sheltered region of Cavaugh, the home of Insomnia, is for making – creating, a stock of supplies. Prompto doesn’t carry any Lucian currency, and Nyx only has a black, plastic card, branded LucEx, which he says won’t work out here.

 

“It’s a Crown City thing,” he explains, “Haven’t had gil on me since – “ his words taper out into nothings, and Prompto doesn’t press.

 

It’s a small, quiet house, situated in the shade of a looming mountain on the prairie, that the ‘Glaive break in to. Prompto waits by the car, conspicuous and easily spotted as it is; a sleek, black vehicle that Nyx calls the Star of Lucis. It’s branded, four interlacing circles, and when Nyx revs the engine, it rumbles quietly with power.

 

The ‘Glaive returns from the house, still dark and not yet roused, not fifteen minutes later, with an arms’ worth of supplies. There is a wad of bills tucked in his collar, which comically wedges beneath his chin. He drops three sets of clothes unceremoniously in the front seat of the car. Along comes a set of desert fruits, as well as a slither of cable.

 

“Sorry to be so blunt, Your Highness,” says Nyx, and hands Prompto a balled up shirt, and then a pair of trousers, “But you’re going to have to strip. I like your ceremonial robes and all, but so does most of this country. And right now, that’s not exactly a good thing.”

 

Prompto discards the tattered remains of his attire, cream robes and embroidered cuffs, in favor of a coarse pair of pants, which end at his ankles, and a black, short sleeved top. He plucks the pin from the breast of his robes, but allows Nyx to burn the rest. The ‘Glaive’s own uniform, black leather and thick armor, goes in the blaze as well. They stay, momentarily, and watch embers and spittle from the fire flicker against the rosy hue of the sky at dawn.

 

The landscape they pass is all the same, no matter where Prompto looks. The short grass of the prairie gives way to complete wasteland, bone dry desert as far as the eye reaches, before it tentatively rolls into a rocky, barren landscape punctuated with tufts of grass again. It goes on, and on, predominantly yellow specked with grey and faded ore black.

 

They pass a faded roadside sign in green, signaling an intersection five kilometers ahead, at noon.

 

“You should have a map in your compartment,” says Nyx, “You’re gonna need to tell me how to drive, from now on.”

 

Prompto clicks the lock, and the compartment falls open. He tilts his head, and rifles hesitantly through the belongings that crowd it.

 

A keychain depicting a Moogle falls out, as does a small bottle of cleaning oil, specifically for fashioned steel. His fingertips become slightly greasy, when he grazes it. There is a short stack of papers at the very back. He pulls the entirety of it out.

 

There is a large, foldable one in the midst. The rest of it, which folds openly into his lap –

 

Something clenches in his stomach.

 

There is a faded, dog eared photo of the Manor’s eastern gardens. Of the breadth of sylleblossoms that grows over the entire field, spilling out over the far cliff. Prompto’s scrawly, non-regal hand has written a short caption below.

 

_Can you imagine seeing this every day?  
Wishing you could, it’s been a long time_

 

On its back, is taped one of the dried flowers he sent in another mail. It’s messily done, and the fragile leaves have begun to crumble. Nonetheless, Prompto traces its edges, nostalgia a knotted fist in his lungs.

 

“Highness – “ hesitates Nyx.

 

Prompto shakes his head, a little like Pryna does, having escaped the outdoor pour for the dry safety of inside the Manor. “No, sorry, I lost myself,” he says.

 

He unfolds the map to splay across the remaining photos. “Take a left up ahead. It’d be wiser to steer clear of the big roads, no?”

 

Nyx nods. “By now, they’ll be on our tail. We should probably ditch the car, too, but – “

 

“But it’s better equipped to travel long distances in than the ones we’ve passed,” concludes Prompto, “We need to get to Cauthess as quick as we can.”

 

In the periphery of his vision, Prompto can see Nyx’s slanted smile. “As I said, Your Highness, I’m not sure it’s so wise to trust me to get you there. I’ll certainly try, but I’m as unfamiliar with these roads as you are.”

 

Ahead of them, a stretch of forest incepts. Prompto can’t tell where it ends. The sky above is a shade of blue so deep it, stupidly, reminds Prompto of some _one_. Not just some _thing_. Someone, who takes precedence above his calling. Whose eyes take on this particular shade.

 

“There’s no need for formality,” says Prompto, absently, but remains looking out the window, “Name’s Prompto.”

 

It takes Nyx a beat to respond. When he does, it’s stubbornly formal, if slightly warm with humor, “If you say so, Highness.”

 

*

 

They stop at a Coernix station at dusk that just precedes the open plains of the Cleigne region. The cashier inside of the station explains that there’s no nearby motel, but they do have a caravan to rent, if they’ve got some gil to spare.

 

Nyx tilts his head, and slants his stance. “’Fraid we’re all out. Is there anything I could trade for it?”

 

The cashier considers them. Prompto averts his gaze, tries to mirror Nyx’s stance, in an attempt to blend in to this environment. He takes note of the stocked shelves, and of the long silence. How Nyx stands his ground kindly, waiting.

 

“Well…” says the cashier, hesitant, “Whole region’s got some problems with… Vermin, if you catch. Now, I’m not sayin’ you look like a hunter. But that’s how you earn a few extra gil like this, ‘n the middle of the night.”

 

Nyx looks back, to Prompto. He motions for the entrance. Prompto nods in affirmation.

 

The diner, adjacent to the gas station, as it is, smells of fat and a curious mixture of spices Prompto can’t identify. The woman who mans the front disc leans into Nyx as she speaks to him. Her tone is low, her words quick, as though this is something secretive she’s relaying. She glances in Prompto’s direction, then back to Nyx. The ‘Glaive nods. She bites at her bottom lip, seems to hesitate, but not before she discreetly pushes a flyer over the counter.

 

“Good luck to y’all,” she says, now loud enough for Prompto to hear.

 

Nyx drives them a bit farther down the road. he parks the car hugging the metal fence that runs along the asphalted stretch, and kills the engine. He looks at Prompto, measured. “You can stay here,” he says. “But – I could use an extra pair of hands.”

 

Prompto meets his gaze. “I’m not – trained,” he confesses.

 

Nyx tilts his head. “You fought your way out of a deadlock with my mentor. That’s not too shabby for someone who’s never had any practical combat training.”

 

Prompto is about to ask, but quickly remembers himself. Before, or perhaps after, he was General Glauca, he was also the Captain of the Kingsglaive; Titus Drautos. Prompto nods. “I’m sorry,” he says, because he feels he needs to justify the fact that he hasn’t expressed his condolences for this man losing his home.

 

Nyx turns away, perhaps a little more sharply than what is customary for him. “I’m thankful for your thoughts, Your Highness,” he says, and there’s a bitter tang to his words, “But you’ve got _shit all_ to apologize for.”

 

“Maybe not,” replies Prompto, and considers Nyx, “But I _am_ sorry.”

 

Nyx nods. A few beats pass them by. “You wanna go out there, earn your living?”

 

Prompto learns two things during his first hunt: one is that he’s to consider himself lucky to be stuck traversing a foreign country with Nyx Ulric, of all people. Two, is that he’s too stilting to be of any use on an actual, active battlefield.

 

The Hobgoblins are quick, and their loping claws are dripping with a mind-altering poison. Prompto jumps readily out of their way, knows quickly how to anticipate when they’ll charge for him. Once or twice, they get close enough to nick his thigh, but only through the thick denim of his pants. Another, one jumps for him. It comes forward at waist height, and he barely has the time to roll aside, to avoid the sweep of their hands. He remembers, far after it’s over, the mindless, chattering laughs that emit garbled from their throats.

 

Prompto is well versed in ducking, it’s when he cocks his gun, takes aim, considers the pitter-patter, light trot the daemons run in, that he overthinks it. He fires off two rapid shots. He manages to hit one in the shoulder; it’s slung backwards with the impact, its face twisted into a hissing snarl. The other one goes wide of the remaining daemon, with the recoil hitting Prompto’s wrist askew.

 

Nyx looks back sharply at the wayward shot. His body is poised to strike, and Prompto thinks, off handedly, that this man’s sole purpose in life has been to kill.

 

“Prompto!” Shouts Nyx, “Out of the way!”

 

Prompto throws himself to the left, pure instinct making him veer and make clear of where Nyx’s twin blades sweep past him. He twists on the ground, precariously to avoid his left side, and scrabbles for purchase to sit up. His hind brain manages to think, stay on your feet, before he vaults to his feet again.

 

He manages to turn around in time to watch the Kukris blades bury in the backs of the remaining two daemons. They thud to the ground with equal wails, and almost at impact being to fade into lilac dust as he watches. Prompto watches their Star’s Scourge, so viscerally raw and pure before him, visible in the sheen of the closest lamp post –

 

He reaches out, cups his hands around the disease, which he can see, simmering licorice black and curling away from him. The tell tale, soft light of the Oracle’s abilities envelopes what remains of the disease. He encapsulates it, and thinks, prays to the Draconian – to the father of the Oracle lineage, of the Judge, the One Wrought in Iron –

 

“Bahamut, The Draconian – “ says Prompto, closing his eyes and concentrating on the act of purification, “Unbending as iron. O’er rotted soil, under blighted sky. From the Heavens high, to the Blessed below; hear the Oracle’s prayer, accept it as a token of my servitude.”

 

The light becomes, for a second, blinding. The curl of Scourge bends and twists, as though refusing it. The light permeates it, eats, little by little, on the black until it turns a sickly green. Prompto maintains the steady feeding of light, knows, that despite the snag in his breathing, that this is nothing compared to needling out the disease from an infected person. He curls his fingers inwards, pushes. The light pierces, undulates and crushes through the Scourge. Then, it snaps out in a blink. What trails remained of the Scourge dissipates in the wake of the light.

 

When he looks back, Nyx’s lips are thin, and his brow is drawn in a frown. “You’re lucky there’s no one around to see,” he says.

 

Prompto purses his lips. “It’s my duty,” he replies, “I understand that we have to remain as anonymous as possible. But I can’t forego what I have been chosen to do.”

 

“…Your Highness,” says Nyx, low and gravelly, “Your duties may entail you to – shine your holy light on people, and you may be destined to go to the each and every of the Gods and make ’em do yours and the young King’s biddings: but it’s my duty to _protect you_. I took an oath, and I’m not about to let that down.”

 

“I understand that,” says Prompto, “And I’m thankful for your coming with me, though you certainly don’t have to. But this is _my_ duty. It’s not about vows, it’s about what I need to do. It’s - it’s all I _can_ do.”

 

Nyx sighs, “All I’m saying is - it’d make _my_ duties, a whole lot easier, if you could stick to healing people sick with the stuff. Not creatures, which I’ve already killed.”

 

“Those _creatures_ were once people,” says Prompto. He shifts his legs so as to stand a little steadier. He crosses his arms across his chest, resolute.

 

Nyx respectfully bows his head, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “I don’t want to disrespect anyone; not you, not the Gods. But if the folks out here manage to sniff out who you are, then you better know that the Niffs’ll come charging straight for us, and they’ll take no prisoners for it. I’m just asking that you – keep it discreet.”

 

Prompto’s upbringing, not much else, keeps him from snapping. He nods, a little stiffly. “I – “ he says, “I’m sorry.”

 

Nyx’s shoulders relax an ounce. “ _I’m_ sorry,” he replies, “I’m just trying to do my job here, Your Highness.”

 

“Prompto,” replies Prompto, automatically.

 

Nyx softly snorts. “Alright,” he allows, “Yeah. _Prompto_.”

 

*

 

Lestallum is, as in his dreams, humid and hot. The air hangs like a wet shroud over them, as Nyx steers the Audi down the driveway to the parking spot, at the cusp of twilight.

 

Prompto wants to breathe the fresh air, but partly still can’t draw air too deeply into his lungs, and partly, can’t force air that’s thick like water, into his nose.

 

They’re filthy with days’ worth driving, their only stops to occasionally sleep, or refuel the car, or take on hunts needed to collect enough gil to do any of the previously mentioned things. Prompto’s hair is curly and thick with grease, and the top plasters to his shoulders and arms.

 

They take refuge in the Leville, the first actual hotel they’ve come across since starting away from the ruins of Insomnia. Its lobby is, by the measures of the Lucian countryside, vast and expansive, and the staircase they take to get to their room, upon which they’d spent their meager earnings, is carpeted and plush.

 

Nyx checks the locks on the door thrice, before he unceremoniously drops to the floor, and unhooks his weapons’ belt; slides his thigh and back holsters off. He procures, from one of the pouches still attached to the much slenderized belt, a jar of fat, and a polishing cloth.

 

“You take the shower,” says Nyx, and sets to cleaning his twin daggers.

 

Prompto complies without much protest; the ‘Glaive is obviously accustomed to his rituals, and to be fair – Prompto is _dying_ for a shower.

 

He strips quickly, begetting grace and dignity in favor of reaching the shower as quickly as possible. The hot spray cleanses him of most of what the prior days have done; he scrubs down slowly, pulls through his hair until the tangles come out, and shampoos it. He leans into the tiled wall, mint and teal in interchangeable patterns, and closes his eyes. Tilts his head up to meet the water.

 

He prods at the murky bloom of bruising that has formed on his lower left side. It’s a foreboding purple, and as soon as he comes into contact with the skin, he has to stifle the sharp gasp of pain that shoves its way into his mouth. He doesn’t know the first thing of taking care of wounds, he realizes, suddenly.

 

The mirror is completely fogged over when he’s done. He thinks about putting on his clothes again, but then figures that they will make him about as dirty as he’d been prior to the shower. So he wraps himself up in a nearby, white robe instead, embroidered with the Leville’s insignia.

 

Nyx has relinquished his weapons on a nearby side table. He looks unconcerned with the lack of ordeals, with the calm that permeates the room, but Prompto sees in the tilt of his body a constant vigilance.

 

“How’re your ribs?” asks Nyx, as Prompto gingerly sits down on the farthest bed.

 

He tilts his head. “I’d be lying if I say they’re fine,” he replies.

 

Nyx nods. “You wearing anything beneath? I don’t want to – and I’ll need to get the robe off you to wrap ‘em.”

 

Prompto worries his lower lip fat and bloody, as Nyx works nimbly, with the deft hands of someone used to handle deadly, sharp objects. When he wraps a heft of bandage securely around the lower part of Prompto’s torso, he pitches forward, the pain a sharp and surprising onslaught.

 

“Sorry,” mutters Nyx, “Grab onto me if you want. This’s gonna feel like I’m resetting the bone. I’m not. We need to stabilize it for the ride down to Cauthess tomorrow, but you shouldn’t go too long with it.”

 

Prompto latches on to Nyx’s right shoulder. His fingers deep dig indents into the bone there. Nyx doesn’t seem to mind particularly. “I was under the impression,” says Prompto, through his laboring breath, “That you should wrap broken ribs.”

 

“Archaic medical practices,” replies Nyx, “It’ll probably help with the pain, but you could land a nasty case of pneumonia if you go with it too long. Lungs can’t expand properly.”

 

It _does_ ease the pain; the bone doesn’t jar, and doesn’t shift, when Prompto shifts. Once Nyx gently removes himself from where he’s been seated, by Prompto’s leg, he carefully breathes in. He finds only a dull ache in the movement, in place of the previously needling pain.

 

“Thank you,” says Prompto. Nyx shrugs.

 

Nyx showers like an infantryman who doesn’t know much hot water, which is probably due to the fact that he _is_ a previously military employed man who’s served with others, and also only lived with others. He’s in and out of the bathroom in five minutes, scrubbed clean and only wearing a towel draped around his waist. He’s carrying their clothes in a tight bundle.

 

“There’s a Laundromat just outside,” he says, “I’ll get this sorted. You just – sleep.”

 

“I could come along,” offers Prompto.

 

Nyx raises an eyebrow. “Take my word for it: laundry’s not a two man job. Besides, I’m not the one about to go wake one of the Six from Their afternoon nap tomorrow.”

 

When he’s gone, modestly dressed in the under armor he’d saved from the funeral pyre of their other clothes, Prompto gets off the bed, and pads over to the window. Outside, Lestallum is darkening, and a pepper of stars – Odin’s Belt, he thinks, sluices over the dark sky.

 

Prompto breathes in this air: the incandescence of Lestallum; bright laughs, and foreign spices, food stalls still open, people milling about in and out of the large courtyard before the hotel. It’s a city undisturbed by the Imperial onslaught, which has not yet reached this part of the country. Prompto supposes that he’s to be thankful for that; to spare as many from this conflict as he can.

 

*

 

The Disc of Cauthess, the air trembling with the heat of high afternoon and the proximity to the meteor, is tightly warded. Though completely deserted at first, when Nyx eases the Audi down over the winding, circling slope that takes them down and in to the very heart of the impact site. The walls arch around them, telling of something that became the surrounding scenery so long ago. The road, which cants off into the abyss of the lower levels, is barren. Nothing grows, and no one goes before them, or comes after them. Prompto spots no one at all, until he does.

 

The looming gate that comes upon them suddenly. Patrolled by Magitek infantry soldiers.

 

It makes Nyx swerve sharply to the left. The ‘Glaive swears, and makes a hasty stop in the midst of the road. He kills the engine completely, but wrestles the vehicle into reverse, ready to backpedal up the slope as quickly as they came.

 

“We can’t go through,” he mutters, unhappily. Prompto notes how his fingers unconsciously twitch towards where his Kukris are strapped to his waist.

 

“Then we go around – on foot,” replies Prompto. Well here, he can sink into himself and feel the slight chatter permeating the air around a holy site. It’s a sensation that jars his bones, and makes the cartilage of his teeth set on edge. He gets out of the car. He tightens his fingers on the gun, which he has shoved into a shoulder holster he’s borrowed off Nyx.

 

They strategize that their one chance, bar breaking through the front, is to swerve around the blockade, and attempt to climb an adjacent slope, to get up and above one of the tall squalls of pre-historically shifted earth.

 

“It’ll take us a day, on foot,” says Nyx, skeptically. He eases from the driver’s seat, noiseless, and sidles the door shut.

 

“But forevermore if we’re caught by the Empire sneaking through their front door,” replies Prompto, a touch dry. Nyx makes a sardonic gesture.

 

“After you then, Highness,” he says, transparently calm, as his fingers continue to twitch towards his belt. His eyes are bright, and quick, on the line of Magitek soldiers pulling their weight back and forth, a jester’s mimicry of a pendulum, far below.

 

Prompto makes it not twenty feet in the blistering heat, shielding his eyes for the sun, precariously creeping alongside their high, far ledge that’ll take them around the blockade. Something catches his eye, but he knows, this far, it’s entirely possible that he succumb to the call and beckon of the Gods. Of mindless tricks –

 

“Who cometh forth to disturb the Archean’s fateful slumber?”

 

Nyx, trailing just behind, automatically comes forth to cover Prompto with the bulk of himself. He’s not drawn a weapon, but Prompto can see in the bend of his knees, and the pitch of his torso, that he plans to. That if the man, whom the voice belongs to, so much as twitches their way, he will be a second removed from pushing the tilt of a blade to his throat.

 

The voice of the man, which Prompto remembers, strikes a breathless chord in his stomach. It makes Nyx’s shoulders draw even tighter.

 

The Imperial Chancellor Izunia tips his hat, inexorably pleasant as always. “The fledgling Oracle, as I live and breathe,” he says, “Prompto, it is _truly_ heartening to see you here. We presumed you dead, caught in the crossfire, ever regretful that we did not keep you closer to the heart of the negotiations. I am absolutely de _lighted_ to see you have found your way from the wreckage of the once-Crowned City.”

 

Prompto pulls down a jarring, deep breath in his lungs, despite his body protesting. “Chancellor Izunia,” he says in response, steeling himself, “What are you doing here?”

 

“Oh, what are the _three_ of us doing here?” replies the Chancellor loftily. He gives Nyx a pointed look. “The late monarch’s personal guard dog; I cannot possibly imagine a scenario which sees _you_ to this – faraway land; the very site of myths and gods. A far cry from the exile you, and your kin, were supposed to eschew.”

 

Something in his speech stops Nyx dead in his tracks; makes him lean out until he is poised to strike, a hair’s breadth from launching himself forward. “Now, _Chancellor_ ,” he hisses, “I can stand you mocking me. Even those dear to me. But what I can’t stand – is the cowardice of you taking a dead man’s name in your mouth. One whose death you engineered, no less.”

 

The air, not only due to the overwhelming heat waves, which roll off the meteor, vibrates with tension. Prompto squares his shoulders. Nyx draws, whip quick, both his blades. “Don’t you _dare_ disrespect His Majesty,” he snaps, “Or I will make you regret it.”

 

There is something peculiar in Chancellor Izunia’s features, something otherworldly in the superior slant of his mouth. “Now, Nyx Ulric,” he enunciates, “Play nice. You are, after all, about to be pardoned, despite your unfortunate intruding on Imperial soil. I suggest you sheathe your little playthings. The Archean, when roused, will no doubt have little patience for your antics.”

 

Nyx, unsurprisingly, does not sheathe his Kukris. When Prompto turns after Chancellor Izunia, who, with a swirl of his thick coat, twists on his heel, Nyx shoulders him back. He doesn’t turn to Prompto, his attention rapt on the Chancellor. “Stay,” he commands.

 

Prompto obeys. He has little reason not to.

 

The Chancellor walks up to the gate, and, in an odd, off-kilter display, shouts, “It’s me! Please be so kind as to open up!”

 

Only for the gates to actually give way with a moan of finality.

 

The Chancellor looks back towards them. He gestures forth, in to the maw that presents itself behind the slide of the blockade, “Come along now,” he says, “Go forth from here, to where you will, quite literally, meet one of your makers. No one will stop you on your path.”

 

“It’s a trap,” mutters Nyx. His fingers tighten on the hilts of the daggers until they are white and his knuckles pop.

 

“Do we have any other option?” asks Prompto, “We don’t have an element of surprise, any longer, and he’s inviting us in through the front gate.”

 

“I don’t doubt your intelligence, Your Highness,” retaliates Nyx, “But that’s exactly why we should _not_ go in through the front gates.”

 

“Well, I don’t see an option,” snaps Prompto back, “Nyx, _please_. We’re wasting time.”

 

“You don’t care about the fact that it is, possibly, the most ill-disguised trap you will ever set your foot in?”

 

“ _If_ it’s a trap – which we have no way of realistically knowing – then we deal with it. We _can’t_ waste more time.”

 

For a second, Prompto doesn’t realistically think there is any way he will get Nyx to go along. But something in his stance gradually gives out, slackens. He actually chuckles, though it’s not with humor. “We _deal_ with it? You’re invited to your own funeral and all you do is tilt your fair head and say thank you for the consideration?”

 

“We’ve faced some quite impossible odds before,” says Prompto, willing himself to ignore the jibe.

 

Nyx shakes his head. He eventually consents. “I guess I can’t say you’re wrong, there. ‘S crazy, but I guess I’ve served beside crazy before.”

 

They approach the gates slowly. Around the bend is the Chancellor, one leg crossing the other, hat askew on his head. He raises an eyebrow as they come into view, and gestures grandly for the Audi, still parked in the midst of the descent of the road. “You’re free to take your car. It is quite a long drive still.”

 

They drive at a crawling pace through the gates. The Chancellor tips his hat exaggeratedly as they drive past. It’s, in the worst way, surreal. The Magitek infantry stationed on site remains, still and nearly lifeless, lined in perfunctory rows along the walls as they pass. It’s like the greatest mockery of a royal parade – a humorless, morbid reenactment of the Crown City infantry saluting the Imperial guests as they arrived before the Citadel in time for the treaty signing. Prompto swallows a shudder and looks ahead, down the slither of the road, to rid himself of the memory.

 

The closer they drive, the more his ears ring, the more his pulse picks up.

 

Prompto leans into his seat and allows for it to overtake him. The sheer, overwhelming sensation of the will of the Hexatheon, whose whispers traverses the length of his body. Fill him out, from the nooks and crevices in his soul, and out through the flesh and blood of him; the tissue, the elongating bones of his legs, his damaged ribs. Through the nerve ends in his spine, coursing through his veins and through his major arteries. In his mind, ancient voices echo, speak, chant, beckon him forth with premonitions and promises and warnings – he is but the earpiece for the divine. He is the Will of the Lawmaker, embodied, brought to mortal life.

 

He hears Nyx patched through, as though faraway, and caught over a line of static, “ – is the farthest – drive – Highness? Are – listening – ?”

 

Prompto comes back to himself, a little swimming and alight, once Nyx hesitantly touches a light palm to his shoulder.

 

“You okay?” asks the soldier.

 

Prompto nods. “Just – fine,” he says, swallowing around the words. “I’ll need a moment.”

 

“Of course,” says Nyx, “I’ll stay here. If you don’t want me to come along.”

 

“Not up to the task?” asks Prompto, trying to weed out the tiniest bit of humor that he’s still got in him.

 

Nyx chuckles. “Truth be told, Your Highness. I’ve always felt a little – out of touch, with this divine business of yours. I’m a man of faith, just – I’d rather just converse with Them, as I’ve always done: in private, by myself. I’ve no need to go knockin’ on anyone’s front door.”

 

Prompto inclines his head, “That’s fair,” he says. “I – this is what I’m destined to do.”

 

“So you go and do that,” says Nyx. He catches Prompto’s gaze; bluish, and grounding. Prompto nods.

 

“For Noctis,” he says.

 

Nyx startles, as though he’s surprised that Prompto’s saying this. As though it comes as a surprise that, above else, elevated above duty, is Noctis. Prompto knows the line of thought well; runs along it himself, sometimes. It’s something that begets reason; it just is. His bond to Noctis, regardless of destiny, just is.

 

“For the King,” replies Nyx, after a few moments.

 

Reaching out from his own mind is a skill he’s more or less perfected since he was old enough to understand how it worked. Perhaps even before then, when he did this on sensation alone – without the knowledge behind it. It’s like feeling along a wall, or a long rope, and feel where it branches off into something adjacent.

 

It’s smaller, thinner – not always in the same spot. Mainly because Pryna and Umbra aren’t, themselves, always positioned in exact relation to where Prompto is.

 

He tugs gently on the light, light webbish string that splits from his own to the west. _When the time has come, to forge the first Covenant_ , he thinks, _I will need the Trident_.

 

The realization of the trident materializing in his half formed, loose fist, is a little like the sensation of being blessed. There is a needling just below his breastbone, and a warmth pooling slanted above him. The sheen of the metal, ancient, imbued with the cast of the Draconian’s iron will, forms slowly in his hand.

 

Tacked on at the end, Prompto thinks he can hear Pryna’s encouraging yip.

 

He smiles, unknowingly, and from there, he goes forth.

 

*

 

“Titan, the Archean. Steadfast as stone.”

 

The earth quakes, splits. From the meteor, a great, terrible rumbling roils forth. A squall of heat sparks from the Disc, and the very foundation of the earth bequeaths a moan. It groans, as the soil gives way for what – for _whom_ , is buried at its cusp. Prompto grinds the trident down further into the ground, and proceeds with the summoning.

 

“O’er blighted soil, under blighted sky. In the Light of the Gods, Sword-Sworn at his side, ‘Gainst the Dark the King’s Battle is fought. From the Heavens high, to the Blessed below, Shines the Beam of a Peace long besought. Lend me your strength, O Titan, and come forth. So that the King of Kings might requisition your strength – so that this Covenant may be forged, and Man once more know your Divine presence.”

 

Titan, from deep beneath the Disc, roars, a noise like a thousand bolts of thunder crashing just below Prompto’s feet. A yawn, pitting into the core of the earth, spits molt and fire. Further from it, cracks flourish, and extend from the original crevice like a spider’s thin legs. The Disc swerves a little, as though jostled.

 

Prompto’s wrapped rib aches, his lungs constrict painfully around the too-hot air. He taps the trident once more into the cliffside, and yells, above the noise like rock splitting and melting, “Titan!”

 

_You have come here, O young Oracle, Wrought in Iron. You will not bend._

 

Prompto, in the dreams in the immediate wake of his Ascension, remembers the whispers of his lineage past: Touched by the Draconian, Wrought in Iron. Willed by the Lawmaker, Go forth to guide to his Ascension: the King of Kings.

 

“I come to requisition your Favor,” says Prompto, into the abyss below, into the heat ahead.

 

_Such is the Will of the Lawmaker. But you lead not the Chosen King. You come alone._

 

“The Chosen King is not far removed from this resting place of the Divine, though as of now, his true purpose for passing through this place remains opaque, to himself and his comrades.”

 

_It is not the task of the Divine to lead forth the Chosen. The Oracle, blessed by the blood of the Draconian, remains tasked with this._

 

“I do not ask that you lead the Chosen by the hand,” says Prompto, “I am asking for the Covenant to be forged, that he might find his way here, by the pull in his blood, by the destiny that is his.”

 

_A task he must prove both by will of mind, and by will of body._

 

“So it is said. Will you accept, Titan, the Archean, steadfast as the stone you bear upon your back?”

 

_Will the one whom you call Chosen, here, on this site of the Divine, prove his worth?_

 

Prompto thinks, through the squalling in his ears, through the muck in his mind, his own conscious sticking as though to tar, pulling through the sensation of being absolutely wrecked by this _God’s_ presence before him. What he thinks: Noctis’s solemn, angled jaw, pictured through a crackling broadcast for his twentieth birthday, receiving on the marbled steps of the Insomnian Citadel.

 

“He will.”

 

_Then let the Covenant be forged. Lead the Chosen forth unto this first of trials. Let him prove his worth._

 

“Heaven and Earth, High and Deep, Birth and Return,” Prompto chants, “Let this Covenant be forged, between Man and God, so that the Chosen King may be blessed, with Divine Light.”

 

*

 

Prompto wipes a streak of soot from the bridge of his nose. He drags the trident after himself, and almost stumbles back into the car. He wrenches the door open and shut, unceremoniously dumping himself into the seat. Nyx wastes no time after that; he revs the engine, and starts immediately in a swerve of tire rubber and dig site dust.

 

“You done here?” he asks.

 

Prompto leans back into the seat. The trident, almost as tall as he is, he wedges back until it’s spearing into the back seat. Nyx says nothing of it.

 

“The rest is up to Noctis,” replies Prompto, and closes his eyes. Exhaustion needles at his conscious. Threatens to envelop him in the pitch black of sleep, despite being so close to danger, so close to the Empire’s presence.

 

His body cares little.

 

He sleeps.

 

*

 

Ramuh, the Fulgurian, comes to Prompto whilst he slumbers.

 

_O Oracle, descended from the blood of the Draconian, Wrought in Iron. You, who seek to set forth the King of Kings upon his path to Ascension._

 

Prompto looks out over the grassy, marshy plains of Duscae, over which the Fulgurian’s voice echoes. Behind him is the loom of lush summer pines. There is the distant rumble of thunder in the distance. The clouds hang heavy, though ripe with summer rain. There is something like premonition in the air, but it’s not threatening. Something akin to peace is settling in Prompto’s belly.

 

“Ramuh, the Fulgurian, quick as lightning,” says Prompto, “You have summoned me here.”

 

_You are but a child, O Oracle. As is your King. Unfit, yet, to lead the path of the Chosen, and to Ascend, to fulfill the prophecy of the Divine and to cure our Star of its Scourge._

 

“This _child_ ,” says Prompto, “Has gained the Favor of the Archean. I daresay he isn’t so unfit.”

 

_I am scarcely as ignorant of the ways of the Fates. So it has come to pass, just as is the Will of the Lawmaker. It has been foretold, that this Chosen King of Kings, gain the favor of not only the Archean._

 

“If not only the Archean – will the Chosen also gain your Favor?”

 

_It has so been foretold. The query is, rather, of which of Fate’s dwindling paths the King of Kings will start unto. O Oracle: Do you wish to set this Covenant in motion?_

 

“I wish to do as is predestined: to aid the King of Kings in the purifying of our Star. To do so, we must both seek out the Gods, to requisition the aid and pardon of the Hexatheon, lest the Darkness emerge victorious, and sends the world into Chaos.”

 

A crackle of lightning divides the sky. The clouds are dark enough to flash lilac. Prompto, in the dream, doesn’t suffer from broken bones, or any other ailments. He pulls the heady air deep into his lungs, and licks his lips, tastes the forebode in the weather.

 

_It is preordained._

 

“Then, Ramuh, the Fulgurian, I will forge this Covenant, and bring unto Your path, the Chosen King. He will undertake Your trial, and deem himself worthy of Your Favor.”

 

_O Oracle, as the mouthpiece, descended from the Will of the Lawmaker, you may go forth, and forge the Covenant. Set in motion that which you wish to come to pass._

 

Prompto feels the trident, real and grounded, in his left hand. He jabs it into the soil of the earth, once, twice.

 

He chants the hymns of the Six. The words are heavy with the taste of iron on his tongue, but quickly they are becoming something familiar, something that weighs real, and true.

 

“Heaven and Earth, High and Deep, Birth and Return. Let this Covenant be forged, between Man and God, so that the Chosen King may be blessed, with Divine Light.”

 

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the love you’ve all given me, comment and kudos-wise, on my other fics. i hope you’re enjoying this, too.
> 
> also, dw about the multiple chapters; i wrote this up in a couple of hours, and have about two thirds of the final chapter written. i just wanted to split it off, ~~much like tabata did for the actual game!~~ bc from hereon there will be Angst. no frolicking.
> 
>  
> 
> btw, you can from hereon find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ddelline)! i follow circa ten people, and most of them are news outlets. ergo, i could really use some people to follow who are not the cnn, or ray chase. if you want to scream about fandom, or non-fandom, et cetera.


	2. PART II: LUCIS TO ALTISSIA - THE ORACLE'S FARE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annnnd another chapter. it changes cadence a bit, but the piece is more exploratory than it is story driven, so forgive me. an interlude, if you will.
> 
> **TRACK LIST CHAPTER 2**
> 
> villainy - local natives  
> erode - tender  
> vapour - vancouver sleep clinic  
> too much is never enough - bob moses  
> slow burn - autograph

* * *

  
Prompto leads them, through the heady pine forest, to a rune-slithered rock plateau. There is something that beckons him deeper into the forest, away from where they’ve pitted a stop, abandoned the car along the road.

 

Nyx hesitantly follows. The crackle of his boots breaking soft twigs and disturbing the forest mat is at a sparse distance from where Prompto follows a not quite-path on the ground. The scent of the forest is thick, fresh in a way you can’t quite duplicate.

 

The formation of rocks appears, at first glance, like a coincidence. The situate is, as they clear the low hanging branches of the nearby trees, just by a slightly more clear cut footpath. Prompto recognizes the low thrum of magic in the air - feels it, innately, inside.

 

The carvings in the rock face aren’t something he at once recognizes. Nonetheless, he feels drawn towards them. He walks over, parting with whatever premonitions he might have felt before entering the clearing. Whatever the runes prove to be, they’re not so different from the origins of the Crystal’s magic. A winding path has been chalked out in the stone, so that’s where he walks up.

 

Prompto bows to his knees in the midst of the vaguely circular top. He spreads his palms wide on the stone, and breathes in the scent of ages of men, and of Gods, bygone.

 

“Uh, Highness – “ comes Nyx’s voice from Prompto’s left. Prompto looks up, to see the ‘Glaive cross his heart. He thinks it’s unconscious, because when Nyx realizes what he does, he sheepishly drops his hand to the, for himself, comforting motion of circling his hips, ever within reach of his blades. “Haven’t seen you do it before, is all.”

 

“I’m not sure I’m doing anything,” admits Prompto. He slowly stands again, cautiously stretches his left side out. “The reaction of the runes shows that its wards are lying dormant. The unusually strong light is probably due to the presence of the both of us.”

 

Nyx, who Prompto has learned through combat, and by sharing close quarters, treads the ground around the loss of his magic a little like an amputee would: sometimes, he’ll strike out oddly whilst up close in a tussle with a daemon, waiting for the flash of the Caelum magic to materialize in one palm. Sometimes, he’ll pitch forward, his body unconsciously reaching for a spot on the far field to warp to; still unused to being unable to use the ability to defy space and time continuum.

 

At the mention of the ‘Glaive as a catalyst for magic, he twitches. “Isn’t it because you’re the Oracle?” he inquires.

 

Prompto dusts his palms on the upper of his thighs. “You were a far more able wielder of the Caelum magic than the rest of your group,” he says. It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Nyx tilts his head in consent.

 

“Still doesn’t mean this rock’s preface lighting up like a beacon’s got anything to do with me.”

 

“I’m not very well versed in the particulars of any Lucian nation,” admits Prompto, “But I know that the only who are known to have preceded the Crystal’s and the Oracle’s lineages, are those who are direct descendants of the tribes of Solheim. Most surviving dynasties in this country have been exempt from carrying on the Hexatheon’s blessing; plainly speaking, no Lucian civilian should be able to wield any kind of magic. With emphasis on civilian.”

 

Nyx slants a smile. “You seem to know your stuff just fine to me,” he says. He cradles one hand above his eyebrows, peers out and into the depth of the forest beyond, “My ma – she believed, more’n most other folk. Galahd – the main village, was still a small place. Relied more heavily on faith. At least before the invasion. Ma – she wasn’t shunned, but her vocal support wasn’t always welcome, either. People had become disillusioned with the Gods by then. She didn’t care. She never did. Had me professing in accordance with the old rites. Braided my hair as the forefathers, read my future in my palm. She was so set on me having even a shred of the old ways - of magic, in me. Nothin’ could sway her otherwise.”

 

Prompto thinks about the rite of the Oracle’s Ascension; of climbing the steps to the razed ruins of the Oracle’s temple in Zoldara, buried deep in the leafy grove behind Fenestala. He thinks about being trapped, the eyelet of the needle in the midst of a storm, his body too thin to bracket the enormity of the Draconian passing unto him his Blessing.

 

Nyx clears his throat, “Well,” he says, “We’ve got to get going, don’t we?”

 

*

 

The Fulgurian’s trial includes a lot of rain.

 

Nyx drives them along the interstate down towards the ocean, veering towards where somewhere, a boat might take you across the sea, to Altissia. Prompto can barely discern the road ahead of them. He’s surprised that the ‘Glaive _can_. Mostly, they drive in silence, but today, Nyx has turned the frequency on, and tuned into the local Duscaen news channel.

 

“The world is still reeling from the shock of losing Prompto Argentum, Tenebrae’s beloved Oracle, and the betrothed of the late Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum. Whilst no remains have yet been found, Argentum, the youngest Oracle in history to Ascend to his position, is considered to have passed, a victim of the tumultuous treaty signing between the nations of Lucis and Niflheim earlier in the month. This confirms an official spokesman for the Empire. The Empire of Niflheim has since seized control of the Crown City, and is currently blockading major roads and crossings all over the country in pursuit of fugitives in support of the former monarchy. This, from the High Commander of the Imperial Forces, Ravus Nox Fleuret, himself.”

 

The broadcast crackles with static, as the announcer plays a pre-recorded tape, and as Nyx turns at an intersection, veering over the long arch of a bridge. “Whilst we remain in shock over the events of these past days, we must not lose our focus: catching these fugitives remains _imperative_ to the Empire’s operation. The Imperial soldiers stationed around the country will graciously accept any information you may have at hand.”

 

Nyx’s fingers tighten on the wheel. Prompto reaches forward. He screws on the frequency, and tunes in to another channel. It plays a soothing melody, plucking guitar strings and the trill of piano accords. “Sorry,” says Nyx, unprompted.

 

“What’s there to apologize for?” asks Prompto.

 

Nyx shakes his head. He keeps precariously to the right on the road, slowing across the planings of water. “Nah, it’s just – “

 

“The Empire,” finishes Prompto.

 

“The Empire,” echoes Nyx, “Unbelievable that they’re out there, broadcasting a manhunt for the _King_ and the _Kingsguard_ on the local news. There’s not a man or woman in this country with an Imperial bone in their body. What’re they thinking?”

 

“The nature of your propaganda matters considerably less when you’ve annexed the country in question and murdered its governing body, doesn’t it?” says Prompto, rhetorical. He needles a breath between his teeth. “I hope they’re alright. That Noctis isn’t just – “

 

“The disappearance of the Archean means he succeeded, doesn’t it?”

 

Prompto nods. “He told me so.”

 

Nyx’s brow draws into a frown. “The – Archean told you so?”

 

“No…” replies Prompto, “Noctis told me so.”

 

Nyx actually turns in his seat, halfway angling himself towards Prompto. “You talk to the Prince,” says the ‘Glaive flatly.

 

“The King,” corrects Prompto, helpfully.

 

Nyx seems to agree with the sentiment, because he doesn’t reply. Prompto scours his memory: he’s pretty certain of that Nyx had been present when he’d received Noctis’s last message, and replied to it in turn. Umbra had come padding across the gravelly parking spot by the Coernix Station at Alstor, fur drenched and paws sloshing. He’d sat down beside one of the lawn chairs, and Prompto had felt the tug of the dog on his conscious, like the tug of one bound with a string.

 

He’s unsure of how to explain it. “We – pass a notebook,” he attempts.

 

Nyx has since turned back to the road. The wet asphalt leeches all of his attention. He seems to think.

 

“The dog,” he says, at last. Prompto nods in affirmation. “You guys don’t – phone each other?”

 

Prompto frowns. “I – “ he says, “No.”

 

“So, in theory – “ says Nyx, but trails off. He glances to Prompto, and then looks back, out onto the unfolding of the road.

 

He abruptly veers left, and stomps on the break pedal. The Audi screeches to an unwilling stop, sliding a little across the road and its slippery, wet surface. Prompto grips the handle on his door. He looks per automat out across the road. He scans for an Imperial aircraft, or the limbering of a herd of dualhorns. He sees nothing, only the ceaseless rain, and the close hover of heavy clouds.

 

“What – “ starts Prompto.

 

“If we’re lucky – “ mutters Nyx, interrupting. He puts his hand down one of the open compartments in their dividing midst. From it he draws a small, black device. Prompto peers closer at it.

 

Nyx swipes over its display with his thumb. It lights up weakly. Prompto feels caught in the midst of something he should, by all means and intents, understand – but doesn’t. The ’Glaive looks up at Prompto again. “You’re gonna have to be quick, if we manage to patch through,“ he says, “The Niffs're gonna have every man on deck tapping phone lines all over the country. I can’t imagine they’ll miss us.“

 

“Which means?“ asks Prompto.

 

“That they’re gonna be on our tail fast,“ replies Nyx, “If we’re lucky they’ll just manage to extract a location, not the minutiae of the conversation. But you can never be too sure.“

 

Nyx presses the device to his ear. Something whirrs faintly, a tiny, shapeless noise emitting from the mech. Prompto makes an inquiring noise. Nyx waves a brief hand at him, indicating silence.

 

The whirr changes. Something clicks, slots into place – a crackle of static sparks from the device. Then, a gruff, male voice speaks something that hears inaudible to Prompto. “’Lo?” asks Nyx.

 

Prompto’s pulse stutters to a quick start, and beats its hasty retreat up his throat.

 

He’s never considered the possibility, and neither has Nyx, apparently, who glances between Prompto and the dashboard. “Yeah?” he says, “This is Clarus’s kid, isn’t it?”

 

The voice on the other end of the broadcast says something. Nyx snorts. “Yeah, I – I made it out. Not sure, to be honest, about the others. Think I was the last to beat it. Yeah, no, not at the time. Whole city was pretty much deserted. Yeah. Libertus rounded up a slew of civilians. Don’t know what became of them, haven’t heard from him since. Yeah. No, I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

 

Nyx glances up at Prompto. Something in the other’s tone of voice switches cadence. “No, I – Well. Actually, if His Grace wants a word – “

 

Nyx slides the device from his ear. He hands it to Prompto.

 

Prompto puts it to his own ear. He clutches it, perhaps a little uselessly, tightly. He almost thinks that it’s practical joke. He thinks of saying it a little deprecatingly; in jest.

 

Instead, he says, “Noctis?” with his voice a little tight and strangled, bundled up in his throat.

 

And the breath of the person on the receiving end of the broadcast stutters.

 

“Prompto?” says a deep voice that Prompto isn’t quite used to hearing. If it’s scratchy due to exhaustion, or due to the static, which crackles occasionally, he can’t discern. Noctis’s voice has switched cadences since he were a child, visiting the Manor injured, small and a little lost. With the late King hovering above his wheelchair with all the rapt attention that entails a worried parent.

 

“The Archean’s trial – “ says Prompto, trailing.

 

Noctis chuckles, “You really had to tell him to give me a migraine whilst pointing me in the right direction, on top of trying to crush me to death when we eventually got there?” something, or someone, sounds a protest in the background. Noctis’s voice comes again, faintly dry, “Gladio sends his regards for that. Really enjoyed his first meeting a _God_.”

 

Prompto’s brow draws up, not at the careless blasphemy, or the jovial tone, but at the disjointed narrative that Noctis is presenting. “I don’t, sorry – I don’t follow.”

 

Noctis’s laugh is low, and something about hearing it makes a hot, pitted feeling in his stomach stir. “Don’t worry about it. I made it, eventually. That’s one down, right?”

 

“Yes. It’s – that’s one down,” says Prompto. In the background, on the other end of the broadcast, someone hushes another.

 

“So… I got your message,” says Noctis, seeming unperturbed by what happens around him, “How’ve you been?”

 

Occasionally, Prompto dreams of things that aren’t made up of impressions passed on to him of days and ancestors foregone, or of events that have not yet come to pass. Sometimes, these dreams are of Noctis. The unfamiliar, older version of him that Prompto’s glimpsed in the occasional photo the Prince – King, has sent back. On the rare broadcasts he’s been shown by his wards.

 

“I’ve been… Busy,” replies Prompto.

 

Noctis actually laughs. It’s a surprised noise; a little breathless. Prompto swallows around the noise of it.

 

“That makes two of us,” says the King of Lucis, “Been busy chasing _you_ around the continent.”

 

Prompto imagines Noctis – The King of Kings, the Chosen, tilting his head on his end of the broadcast, his smile minute and crooked. The gravitas of his title – this person, whom Prompto has been destined to follow, and to lead, intermittently, since he was born, contra the person who laughs on the other end, genuinely happy – its oscillation is enough to make Prompto dizzy.

 

“Well. Altissia, though,” says Noctis. Prompto hears him shifting against his mouthpiece. “I’ll meet you there – once I’ve found the Fulgurian. That’s a promise.”

 

Prompto – remembers his journey from Tenebrae, cross-sea to Lucis aboard one of the Empire’s airborne freight carriers. Crossing through the western customs border in Leide, after the distant ride from the docks in the midst of the country. The drive in to the heart of the city of Insomnia, passing the untouched, dewy growth of the Cavaugh region, sheltered as it is by the Wall. He’d dozed along the very same road on which they’d traveled in stunned silence, after the invasion, and the subsequent fight. He’d fought to shed his persona, and the worries he’d harbored, on the way to the wide eyed child he’d known once in his life.

 

Prompto’s got no way of knowing what type of person Noctis has grown into, since they never met, on that fateful day. But.

 

He thinks, listening to the soothing drop of Noctis’s voice. That on the steps leading to the grand, archaic Altissian cathedral, Prompto would be able to fulfill the single requirement of a once-besought peace. Regardless of what’s happened since the last time they saw each other.

 

He could, for the sake of his home, as well as for the remainder of Eos, tie himself to the Lucian Prince. In sickness, and in health. They’ve no way of truly knowing each other. But, Prompto thinks, listening to Noctis’s quiet breathing, and the slash of harsh wind and rain against the Audi’s windows – Amidst this, the both of them, but mostly himself – whilst no longer immediately embroiled in the central governing conflict – is still a major player.

 

They will begin, or they will end, in Altissia.

 

“We’ll meet in the harbor,” says Prompto. He cradles the mouthpiece closer to his mouth. “ _That’s_ a promise.”

 

*

 

They round the peak of the Caem peninsula.

 

Nyx continues past the bend in the road signaling the outpost. Prompto follows it with his gaze until they round the next corner, its road up to the Caem Lighthouse obscured by the hanging of low, crowded branches. The weather, a day later, has not yet subsided. The rain isn’t anymore torrential, but Prompto has felt the forks of lightning crackle over the sky as though through his own body. Noctis has not yet completed the Fulgurian’s trial.

 

“We’re here,” says Nyx, once they stop. It’s not five minutes later, but Prompto can’t more than glimpse what might be the lighthouse tower in the distance. The ‘Glaive carefully pulls the car’s key out of its socket. They sit in what is, for just a moment, absolute quiet, bar the repentant noise of rain drumming against the windshield.

 

Prompto hasn’t asked him where they’re going. He has a feeling he’ll find out, anyway. And, according to an insistent picking on the inside of his skull – he should be able to figure it out for himself.

 

They get out of the car. Prompto swipes at his hair, to slick it back from his face. They’d purchased jackets for the both of them in Lestallum, but it’s, all in all, a rather poor shielding from the incessant downpour.

 

Nyx leads them off the road. He climbers over the metal rail, and where Prompto thinks there is nothing, the soldier starts down a steep path. It’s barely visible, nestled into the wall that takes them into the crash of the waves below.

 

“Watch your step,” says Nyx, and puts one of his palms to the stalagmite wall.

 

It’s not a _path_ , per se; more of a chalking into the bulk of the mountain. Prompto treads precariously. Occasionally, he has to stop - when he feels that one of his boots may give way to the slimy underfoot trail. Nyx, his tread inane and anonymous, ahead of Prompto, puts his feet in the nooks and crannies of the pathway that aren’t strictly visible to the new eye. A muscle memory, rote in the body after repeating it so many times, along the very same way. The ‘Glaive seems at ease with the windings of the steps, and the fretful weather on their right hand side. The wind flattens them into the wall, and when he sways where he stands, Prompto has to take care not to look down. To train his gaze only on Nyx’s broad shoulders, slightly hulking ahead of him as they descend further.

 

The path suddenly cuts off. Prompto can’t see where at first. It looks as though they’ve come a long way down, only for the final stepping to lead them straight into the squall beneath. But when Nyx crouches down, Prompto glimpses it in the narrow spot between his shoulder and the rock: a turning point, veering to the left. Ahead of them the wind turns a corner. The needling sound disappears around, and into, something.

 

Prompto eases off the ledge after Nyx. Well there he discovers a slightly larger, more staked out path. The abrupt change of direction has whetted the corner of the stone, but sheltered their new trail. The rough cave walls are wet with where the spray of the sea has clung on to the stone, slippery with algae, but at least their foothold has turned somewhat broader. It appears sturdier beneath Prompto’s feet, and well started on it, he eventually catches up to Nyx.

 

The cave that unfolds around them looks man-made. It’s not, by nature’s own devices, a cave: a grotto, which is prone to Lucis’s interchangeable landscape. The hollow looks torn straight out of the mountain, by explosives or other means. It looks intentional, and not soluble. The walls are uneven and sharp, but not due to stalactite. In its far end, Prompto sees a modest boardwalk unfold in the ruddy midday light.

 

“A secret harbor?” he asks Nyx’s turned back, curiosity piqued.

 

“Didn’t used to be,” comes the muffled reply. “Now? I suppose you could call it that.”

 

Prompto mulls over the opaque reply. “Since it’s not a natural cave, it’s fashioned for a purpose,” he says, trying again.

 

Nyx’s voice turns amused. “You think we’re here on some sort of secret op, Your Highness?”

 

“Aren’t we?” replies Prompto. He relishes in the momentary lapse in atmosphere; it’s been some time since life wasn’t just about the fulfillment of one’s duty, or about the ravaging of conflict all around them.

 

“I could certainly be. You’d be the unassuming escapee.”

 

“Ah,” replies Prompto, “I see. Of course.”

 

Nyx indicates, with one hand sweeping, the unfolding of what Prompto quickly realizes is indeed a docking space. “About to board a ship that’ll take you far, far away.”

 

An old hanging bridge boards the path along the wall with the dock. Nyx tests it first. The wooden planks, connected by rope, creak underneath him, but he makes it safely, if slowly, to the other side. He motions for Prompto to follow.

 

The stretch of dock is a slather of concrete; molded securely into the tide beneath. The block is punctuated only by a few welded iron hooks made to steady any vessels incoming. It’s not built for a mass influx of guests, nor can it take too many at a time. Certainly not steep, regal longboats. The cave is deep, but shallow in space; the roof hangs low above them, and though the mouth is wide, it thins the farther you breach it. The boats that have docked here have been small, unassuming.

 

“We have no ship,” notes Prompto. He glances to Nyx, raising an eyebrow.

 

Nyx snorts. “Patience, Your Highness, is a virtue.” He motions for the far end of the docking space, “We’re not there yet.”

 

The pathway that Nyx makes for is thin, and mostly obscured from outside view. The ‘Glaive feels his way along the wall, until Prompto can see something split in the rock, Nyx‘s fingers dip into a crevice behind. The passage is narrow, but they both fit through it. Prompto sucks down a deep breath, wills his claustrophobia to settle in his stomach.

 

He mentally attempts to secure their location: they’re west of the Caem peninsula, which lies relatively snugly fit inwards the midst of Lucis. Not far enough to have the peaks of the seaside situate completely, but neither are they far enough to have returned to the inland. But the deeper they press into the mountain, Prompto wonders _where_ they’re headed.

 

The path ahead has been disturbed recently: Nyx’s footwork ahead of Prompto is not the first to have trekked the same way. There’s more mud to the solid ground beneath than what the two of them are able to track through. It doesn’t, thankfully, steepen, but it doesn’t chalk out larger, either. Nyx maintains a relative pace, and Prompto concentrates on the soldier’s quiet breathing, rather than on his own mental ghosts, to carry on.

 

“Is it from the war?” asks Prompto. The silence settles uncomfortably around him. Better to be talking.

 

Nyx grunts. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an inquisitive type?”

 

“I – Sorry,” says Prompto, chastised, “It’s the claustrophobia talking. I understand if it’s not a conversation you want to have.”

 

It takes some time for Nyx to reply, but when he does, there’s a faded sort of reconciliation in his tone. “It’s fine,” he says, “There’s not a lot of documentation. Papers in the Crown City covered the brunt of the invasion, but that was pretty much it. Galahd – we were too far removed from the rest of civilization. People there – guess they didn’t have time to care.”

 

Prompto, from a nation that hears sorely little about the state of the world as it is, far removed from the wonders of Lucis’ modern technological advance, and at the mercy of the Empire’s restrictions, knows of the Galahd invasion only due to the fact that the province belongs to the old tribes. The old tribes, who still practice the ancient worship of Solheim deities. Prompto knows because, in his blood, he, too, can hear the chime of bells tolling for something larger than life, but that came to pass centuries and centuries ago.

 

“Galahd wasn’t spared,” Prompto says, carefully, “Because Lucis wouldn’t give it up.”

 

“Yeah, well. Not just Lucis who wouldn’t give it up,” says Nyx, “Guerilla warfare is ugly business. Nothing nobody wants to acknowledge happens, from either side.” Then he says no more.

 

They walk until Prompto feels the gravel of the path underneath like an itch in his calves. The path becomes steeper and colder, and at one point, they turn slightly, into where the hollowing becomes lower. Nyx looks briefly back at Prompto, tilted slightly forward to accommodate to the difference in height. “You okay?”

 

“Fine,” replies Prompto.

 

Nyx nods, and says, “Not much farther,” as he starts again on the trail.

 

The low hanging of the roof, for as long as it is, makes Prompto hunch down. His shoulder drawn inwards, he walks with cautious steps. Nyx back is almost flat ahead, but the soldier seems unperturbed by the conditions, as ever. The path beneath has become increasingly wetter, Prompto’s soles clench in the mud that’s thickened. For the first time in the bottomless pit of time they entered when they traversed inwards, a gust of wind breezes past them. Prompto sucks at the promise of outside air gratefully.

 

A thin spear of light permeates where Nyx steps next. Prompto follows him, a little closer than before, eager to escape their tight confines. A few more steps, now with his breath quickening, his almost crowding Nyx forward, and they step out.

 

The brisk air claws at his cheeks, but Prompto doesn’t care so much about it as he does the deep mouthfuls of sea breeze he’s now able to swallow down. It’s considerably mellower in the place they’ve come to, than out by the coast. But, he considers, they walked for quite a while, and most of it, by his discerning, did not change their course but marginally. They kept at it straight inlands.

 

The scenery before him is, for all intents, a harbor. An unofficial such, judging by the narrow passage which leads out from it, the outfall of the ocean purling serenely to their southwest. Also, because it only houses a single ship. A thin making, its hull scrubbed clean but its oiled deck weathered with age. It could probably house a small group, but certainly not an entire crew.

 

The passage they’d emerged from is adjacent to the seaway. Farther to the north, unfolding from a rocky shore and a gentle squall, is a leafy, almost tropical landscape. It’s a far cry from the mute, sandy planes of Caem, and looks almost cultivated – nurtured into place.

 

Nyx leads them onto a trail upwards. Prompto spots no one, and Nyx makes no indications that the quaint space, which appears to be wholly man made, its growth planted and its docking space nailed in place by many – should be populated.

 

The growth is moderate, not wholly dense, and it’s easy to make their way through thick rubber trees and tall potbellied palms, eucalyptus bushes and dewy grass. Nyx takes them off the footpath and up a slope, its end relatively obscured by low hanging fruit from nearby, arching tree crowns.

 

What meets them is a small house. A boat house, by all appearances. The veranda is small, but has a spyglass set up on a tripod that leans over the railing. Next to the door is a wooden bench. On it is a number of items: sea charts, the frayed coil of a rope, a heavy roll of what Prompto assumes is burlap. A black bird with a bronzed belly is sat on the spyglass when they breach the veranda. It tilts its head considering, before it unfolds its wings and takes off with a croak.

 

The house is void of life. Prompto follows Nyx closely as the soldier steps inside without much regard. It’s simply furbished: not a home, more likely simple shelter and a place to temporarily rest. Nyx wanders the premise like he does all rooms they’ve rented or squatted in thus far. He checks locks, and runs a hand over window fastenings and doorframes. In open spaces, he peers through the daylight, and measures a hand through the air, as though looking for something invisible to the eye. Once Prompto sees that he’s satisfied, he steps through the door wholly, and shuts it behind him.

 

“Dammit,” swears Nyx, softly, from where he’s leaning over a desk to the right. There’s papers and more charts strewn over it, but it appears untouched since long. “He could’ve waited. We were right behind them.”

 

“Someone was here,” says Prompto, a little needlessly.

 

“Yeah,” says Nyx, “A couple of days ago, at most. Libertus, I – you two met. Briefly.”

 

Prompto nods, remembers. “You said he managed to get out.”

 

“He did. He’s been here. Just couldn’t squat here for too long, I guess. This place’s a mess to get to, and you wouldn’t want it discovered just ‘cause you wouldn‘t keep moving. He – the official documentation here accounts for four ships. Three docked here, one was supposed to relay on the outside. He must’ve already sent some people on their way.”

 

“On their way? You mean, he‘s sent refugees out to sea?”

 

Nyx pulls a few charts up to view them through light. “Headed for Accordo. There’s a camp in the Veneria Reserve that’s accepted Lucian refugees since the first war.”

 

Veneria, Prompto knows, is a patch of rainforest on the mainland that branches around Altissia. It’s an outpost of old, since abandoned due to almost impenetrable overgrowth of vegetation surrounding it, and subsequently its being classified as a protected nature reserve by the Accordo governing body. Its strategic value was lost to the Empire as soon as the land became sacred, and their use of it sacrilegious. Apparently, someone had made good use of it ever since.

 

“We’re not just a bunch of land rat refugees,” says Nyx. He’s turned to Prompto, a blackened tinge of humor to his voice, “I grew up practically on top of a river. Most of us have spent as much time on the water as we have in the trees, and on the ground. No one sent on those boats were left to their own devices, I can promise you.”

 

Prompto backpedals. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t accusing anyone – “

 

“I know,” Nyx cuts off, “Don’t worry about it.”

 

“So that’s how we’ll go?” asks Prompto, “The ship in the harbor?”

 

Nyx slowly lets the sea charts down on the tabletop again. He turns to Prompto, and tilts his head slightly, considering. “Do you trust me, Your Highness?”

 

*

 

Nyx, for all that Prompto has a difficult time believing he’s a fully fledged sailor, handles the ship deftly and with easy, sure hands.

 

He points to all of the stations Prompto has to aid him in seeing to: there is the navigating, which Nyx does himself, due to the fact that Prompto has scarcely seen a navigational chart in his life. He winds up the relatively short mast easily, loosening and fastening the different sets of burlap that pass for their sails, mounted on, what Nyx calls, a wishbone rig. He shows Prompto how to tie an array of sailor’s knots, forcing the sets of thick ropes they’ve hauled onto deck into coercion. He allows Prompto to handle the steering tiller while on open water, but takes it as soon as they’re to navigate closer along a stretch of coast.

 

“The galley on this isn’t very spacious,” says Nyx, once twilight sets, and he indicates for Prompto to go below deck, “But it’s alright if you’re down there alone.”

 

“You’ll have to sleep too,” Prompto points out.

 

Nyx raises an eyebrow. His smile cants sideways. “While I’m flattered, Highness – I’ve probably done double nightshifts since before you were taught how to spell your own name.”

 

It’s not, probably, intended to be haughty, especially not because Nyx is so careful about catering to protocol connected to Prompto being of higher birth. But it makes him cock a hip against the railing of the stairs that he’s started down, tilt his chin up. “You’re still human,” says Prompto, not quite able to hide a touch of sarcasm.

 

It’s Nyx’s particular brand of black humor that makes him tip an imaginary hat, “Not to offend, I’m just saying that there’s no need to worry about me. We’ll make Altissia in five days. I can afford some shuteye when we’re closing in on the Accordo mainland,” and maintain an amicable tone.

 

Prompto looks out over the burnished horizon, far, far off. The overhead sky is already dark. A pepper of stars are scintillating, farther up, farther north of where their course is taking them. Prompto sees the farthest peak of Alexander’s left arm begin to discern itself from the main body of its constellation. “You can never see the entirety of Alexander from the mainland,” he says.

 

Nyx looks up. “Many things you can’t see, or experience, from the mainland.”

 

“I wonder if you can, from Altissia.”

 

Nyx hums. “I hear it’s supposed to be – somethin’ else. For sure.”

 

Prompto thinks of the landscape paintings he’s seen of the city surrounded by the walls of water; its beauty, which takes on a very serene quality. A soothing sense of that your worries are to perish as soon as you enter within the city‘s bounds. It looks achingly beautiful, a small, encased archipelago of archaic architecture and grand, divine sculpting. Its looming cathedral is supposed to be one of the few wonders of the world that’s remained untouched.

 

But, he also knows, that beneath the waters, Altissia’s guardian is not so much serene, and quaint. The city’s mother is fierce, and haughty, in the malevolent way he thinks is becoming of deities but unbecoming of one particular thought of as a _mother_.

 

Once he rouses from his temporary lapse, he sees that Nyx has turned back to the tiller, and turned his back towards Prompto. He’s looking ahead, to where the sun has been completely submerged in the murky depths of the Cygillan Ocean.

 

“Highness,” says Nyx, “Get some rest. Forecast said tomorrow’ll bring about a storm, so it’s best to sleep while you can.”

 

Prompto, this time, does not argue.

 

*

 

Nyx is, predictably, right.

 

The ship cringes and shivers with each violent squall of wave that wreaks into them, starboard and port, over the reeling and roaring down over the head of the small sailboat.

 

“Prompto!” yells Nyx over the croak of thunder and the high pitch of the wind. Prompto would take a queer sort of satisfaction in the ‘Glaive finally calling him by his given name, rather than his title, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s clinging to the mast for all of his life, fiddling with a knot on the top sail with stiff, raw fingers, “You’re gonna have to get it reeled in very soon, or it’ll break from the rig!”

 

“Not for a lack of trying!” yells Prompto right back. His hair plasters to his face, rain whips in his eyes, and he’s fighting a losing battle with the roiling sickness in his stomach.

 

“You want to switch places?” Nyx’s voice is partially drowned in the noise of the weather. Another rumbling of thunder washes over them. A fork of lightning splits the overhead sky.

 

“You want to give up the tiller to _me_?”

 

“I’d rather you steer us a few miles off course than the rig keeling beneath the weight of the top sail, and taking you with it!”

 

Prompto curses, contrary to what’s been instilled as rote in him, and closes his eyes for the lurch of his stomach. He scrabbles for purchase on the knobbly mast, and breathes through his mouth. Rain, cold and void of the salt that permeates the sea, drips down his chin. He thinks of land, and the stillness of solid rock beneath his feet. Up ahead, another crackle of lightning blinks. It turns red on the back of his eyelids.

 

“Prompto!” yells Nyx again, but much closer, this time. Something taps him on the ankle that’s the farthest down on the mast. “Slide down and I’ll catch you!”

 

Prompto does. He’d like to say that he doesn’t nearly knock them both over with the graceless way in which he just sort of allows himself to let go of the branching of the gaff, but he does. He is caught by the very solid statue of Nyx’s shoulders, and arms. The ‘Glaive grunts, but pressures upwards to hinder Prompto from simply slipping past. Slowly, slowly, he feels how he’s lowered down. He’s found the pegs on the mast, and he stands on them to take some of his own weight off of Nyx.

 

Nyx gives Prompto’s shoulder a gentle shake. Beneath them, the hull of the ship breaks harshly through an onslaught of waves. Prompto steels himself, and attempts not to topple over. “Hey,” comes Nyx’s voice, “Stay with me. You’re okay.”

 

Prompto nods. “I’m fine, it’s okay,” he repeats, like a mantra. And opens his eyes.

 

Nyx is drenched, his hair slicked sideways on his skull. He looks neutral on the verge of ire, like an animal caught out in the pour. “Right,” the soldier says, “Now you just – try to keep us on course. It’s straight ahead. Your biggest problem is gonna be keeping us straight.”

 

He leads Prompto over the slick deck. He cups a hand over his eyes, and looks far into the darkly bruised storm. He places Prompto’s hands both on the tiller, and tilts it. The lever unwillingly gives way as Nyx nudges for Prompto to put his weight into it. “There you go,” he says, “Now, we’re on course. Just – keep it there. It’ll try and bend you out of shape. Don’t let it.”

 

Prompto can barely take his eyes off the course – which he can’t see, but memorizes the tilt of the tiller beneath his two handed grip – but for watching Nyx scale the mast up to the split of the gaff rig, lithe and with a practiced ease that seems rote in his bones, in his sinews and muscle.

 

The irate squall makes the tiller slip beneath him far too many times for his own liking, but soon enough, Prompto’s able to anticipate when the ocean will want to wring them away from their way. He is pushed to the side, but pushes back. One time, he slips, unable to find purchase and footing on the slippery deck, and falls. He careens into the short side of the boards at port, and only vaguely remembers to crouch, and fold into himself, arms protectively over his head.

 

The sea, however, seems to be satisfied with his fall and the subsequent violent tear of the boat as it veers a sharp left. Up in the mast, Nyx swears in a language Prompto isn’t familiar with. “Goddamnit – Prompto! What happened?”

 

“I’m – it’s fine,” croaks Prompto. He waves a hand to indicate that he’s, as of yet, alive, and crawls to his knees and palms. The road to Altissia, and to forging their next covenant, has never appeared so distant. He’s shivering, feels the needling pricks of rain down to his very marrow. His stomach jumps again, and he has to curl into himself to hinder the onslaught of sickness – to swallow down on the bile that rises in his throat.

 

He vaguely, through a roar in his ears that takes precedence over the weather, registers a dull thump as Nyx having flung himself from the gaff. When he’s able to breathe normally again, he sees the ‘Glaive wrestling the tiller onto course again, holding it there but turning to Prompto. Prompto waves at him again, “Give me a second,” he says.

 

Nyx indicates that he remain where he is, “Wait until you _can_ stand,” he says.

 

Prompto nods, sucks in a deep, wet breath, and pushes himself backwards, to sitting. His shirt plasters to the wet reeling behind. Unless he’s imagining things, the waves have, however temporarily it may be, quieted. The rolling motion of when they crash into the hull seems a little less violent than before.

 

“I think we’ve made it out of the worst,” says Nyx. The ‘Glaive swipes stray strands out of his face. “Go below deck, if it doesn’t make you feel worse, try to drink something. I’ll steer us through the rest of it.”

 

Prompto nods, but makes no move to get up. His legs feel detached from his waist, cold and numb weights that he couldn’t move if he tried. They’ve got three days until they make Altissia. By dawn, Nyx had said, unless they derail too far, they’ll come upon the Accordo mainland. Can, probably, unless the weather disagrees, spot the growth of the Veneria Reserve.

 

He shuts his eyes again, and waits for the storm to pass them by.

 

*

 

The closer they edge the one out of Accordo’s two masses of encasing mainland islands, the warmer it gets. Though a cloud of rain follows them doggedly as they round the mass of the island that arches around Altissia’s archipelago, it grows hotter the closer they come. And as soon as the drizzle, because it’s light, rather than a violent pour, ceases, it gives way to a cloudy heat that prompts Nyx to shed his shirt, and makes Prompto scour the deck in futile search of a spot of shade. There is, unfortunately, none that’s not below deck, which is too far removed from whatever he may have to tend to whilst Nyx is handling their chart.

 

On the cusp of midday of day four, they pass a sign that tells them they are now firmly into the Province of Accordo, and that this is the passing of the trifecta of water bodies. It divides the Sathersea to the north, and the Cygillan Ocean to the west, from where, around the bend, Accordo’s Celluna Cascades takes precedence. They‘ve made it.

 

Prompto immediately perks up from where he’s sat in the stair up to the head, threading a needle with clumsy, unused fingers through where the burlap has torn in a corner. He scrubs at his nose, where some rough, weather bitten skin comes off.

 

“You see that?” says Nyx. He’s squinting beneath the shade of his free hand, his other, as ever, steering the tiller. “Almost made it.”

 

“Thank the Six,” says Prompto, unfiltered and unabashedly blunt. It startles a laugh out of Nyx. “Not taken a liking to the sea yet, Highness?”

 

Prompto, who has alternated between vomiting up what little nourishment he’s managed to force down over the past few evenings, and the rest attempting to wrestle his shaky legs into submission when he takes over the steering - longs desperately for a foot of ground that does not sway beneath him. “I’ve had my share of the sea, I think,” he replies.

 

Nyx snorts. He steers them steeply inlands. “Fair enough, I suppose. We’ll be ready to round the peninsula at twilight. From there, it’s heads down.”

 

For all intents, Prompto still has a difficult time grasping that he has to travel anonymously, but remembers that they’ve not come the official way for reasons. He nods, “You’ll have to lead by example.”

 

“Not to worry, Your Highness,” says Nyx, “I’m doin’ this in the name of my King. I don’t plan for it to go wrong.”

 

Indeed, aren’t they both doing it for their King? Prompto pulls a few fingers through the tangled, salty mess that is his hair, and tilts his head to look up at the sky. For once, it’s not overcast, but instead so deep a blue it’s difficult not to feel like you‘re to drown in it. He closes his eyes to it, to the tiny wisps of cloud that dots it, far ahead, and feels, actively, the heady breeze against his sunburned face. He’d felt it, or rather – he’d known when he hadn’t anymore felt it. The pressure behind his temples, the whisper of the Six at the base of his temple. Noctis had completed the Fulgurian’s trial successfully. And now, onwards – to meet them in Altissia.

 

“How long do we think it’ll take them until they make port?” he asks, eyes still closed, head tilted in Nyx’s direction.

 

The ‘Glaive hums, noncommittal, “Let’s hope they figure it out quick. And that Clarus’s kid was properly schooled into his role as Shield.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean, there are no ferries. Officially, there’s no way to cross over from Lucis.”

 

“Unofficially, then.”

 

“Unofficially, I hear there’s a secret docking space beneath the Caem lighthouse.”

 

Prompto cracks an eye open to peer up at Nyx. “Not the space we passed through,” he says, brow furrowed.

 

“Nah,” says Nyx, “That’s – this is some secret royal space. King Regis used it during the first war. ‘S a tightly warded secret. I only know about it due to my occasional cozying with the Kingsguard.”

 

This is what permeates Prompto’s thoughts, as the hours roll steadily past, from midday and into afternoon, into evening. On the clock past five, when he knows that soon, the sun will start to set, he crouches next to the railing portside, and faces their true north. There’s always a low turning tug in his stomach in that direction that’s easy for Prompto to sink into. He seats himself more comfortably across his heels, on his calves, though he knows he’ll grow uncomfortable either way – and prays.

 

He prays for Noctis. For himself, and Nyx. For the refugees, spilling from the gates and over the bridges of Insomnia’s outer borders – either out, into the kept wilderness of Cavaugh, or past it, towards the blockade. He prays for the group apparently shepherded by Libertus, the other Galahdian – pulled across prairies, and marshes, and through daemon-infested nights and sweltering days. He prays for his home. He keeps his back straight, and his shoulders squared, as he thinks of the swiveling staircase in Fenestala’s center room. He thinks of the rolling hills of Sylleblossoms that permeate the many cliff sides and floating islands of Ulwaat, and of the deep, green gorges of Zoldara. He prays for what people he left behind in the manor, and for the families that live on adjacent plateaus in Piztala. He prays for the small fishing villages situated on the acres of beach that edges the Sathersea. He prays – above all, selfishly, though with purpose, that he may live. That he, and Noctis, may live, that they may fulfill the prophecy that has been written for them.

 

“Highness – Prompto.”

 

Nyx’s voice gradually filters through. Through the roar of voices that he always, unconsciously or no, calls upon as soon as he sinks into the meditative state of prayer. He comes back to himself in bits and pieces, torn apart only to be melded together by his conscious drawing itself back together: he feels the ache that screams in his back, the hollow lock that his knees have gone into; the numbness in his fingers, and the chilled breeze that tugs on his shirt. He opens his eyes, sees a burst of stars, before his vision clears.

 

It’s dark.

 

He gets painstakingly to his feet. “Sorry,” he says, turning to Nyx.

 

Nyx shakes his head, a little bewildered. “Had to check up on you a couple of times, see you were still alive.”

 

Prompto snorts. “There’s something wholesome in dying whilst in prayer,” he says.

 

“Uh,” Nyx says, “If that’s what you want to call it, sure. Just – we’re gettin’ close. You should probably gear up.”

 

That’s when Prompto looks up, over the head of the boat, and notices the scintillating city of Altissia unfold in broad brushstrokes ahead of them.

 

His breath lodges in his throat, and he so wishes he had his camera with him. It’s gorgeous; incandescent lightning breaking over golden age façades, its architecture archaic in such a picture perfect way that it robs Prompto of breath. For a few moments, he just stands there – stares at where the waterfalls roar, on all sides of them, enveloping the city to give it reason to be called the city within the walls of water. The cathedral, the Palazzo Altemeria, scales so that even distantly, it appears grand, a looming threat. An institute, rightfully worthy of being the home of worship to the ferocious Hydrean.

 

Nyx, at the helm, has already redressed. He’s in a linen shirt that accentuates the hollow between his collarbones, but has retained his combat boots. His utilitarian trousers. At his thigh, he has a blade holster. At his waist, a pistol. Prompto frowns, “Your blades?”

 

Nyx arches his left foot outwards. Something shifts beneath his trouser leg. Now that Prompto’s spotted it, it’s easy to see where one of the Kukris blades curves wrongly against his calf. It’s not visible to anyone who’s not paying attention, so Prompto garners that’s what they will hope for.

 

Below deck, there’s a tight roll of clothing that’s been put there for him. It’s much the same as Nyx’s – a linen shirt, billowing in the sleeves and around the body, together with black trousers. Prompto gets to keep his own boots, purchased in Lestallum, since his ornate, ceremonial pair had been readily forgotten about in Alstor.

 

He recognizes the dress as that of merchants, and he gathers that it’s most likely what will get them into bay without pulling the wrong sort of attention to them.

 

The galley holds a tiny, cracked mirror at one end. He tilts his head and stoops down to be able to see himself: his hair, sun bleached, is still a darker, dirtier blonde than usual – curlier and messier than how the public is used to see him. The starch sunburn has reddened the tip of his nose, and has made his forehead flake. His freckles are starch, dark, but they’re not a defining characteristic for him. Prompto runs his hands through his hair to muss it up even further, attempts to make the tips of it curl as it does at the base of his neck.

 

He emerges above deck again, nervous, but contained, knows that if someone recognizes him now, it’ll have been a miracle he’s certain even the Gods themselves would not have incited. Nyx glances briefly back. He nods in approval. “You look – inconspicuous,” he says, and slants a grin.

 

Prompto chuckles. He tugs at his sleeves to right them at his wrists. “Let’s hope that I do,” he says.

 

The bay that Nyx veers for is a broad jut out from the peninsula. It’s well lit, and along its long pier a guard patrols. Prompto briefly imagines attempting to sneak past this, and as quickly, banishes the thought from his mind. Not only is there a guard post at the pier, but where it breaks, another takes by, patrolling the horizontal length of the docking space.

 

“Now, Highness,” says Nyx, through lightly bitten teeth, “Remember: we’re merchants, recently from Lucis. We’re here in pursuit of a new ship, and to trade for goods.”

 

One of the guards, clad in all royal blues with gleaming gold stitching and wide buttons, waves them into an empty situate at the far end of the pier. Nyx carefully steers them on their way, having already sunk their anchor to trail and slow them down. The Altissian guard, which has now amassed into four, shout amongst themselves to receive the vessel, which is small, but still a sailboat. Nyx appears loose, but Prompto sights his tight knuckles on the tiller.

 

“Welcome to Altissia, gentlemen,” says the first man of the guard post to meet them ashore. “Inventories are usually presented directly to me. However, I cannot say I expect there to be much of one here.”

 

Nyx tilts his head a little haplessly. His smile is disarming. “You’d be right in that assumption, sir. Though you are, of course, welcome to board and check. This little thing – don’t let her fool you, she’s sturdy as a longboat – was just enough to get us here. We’re planning to do some business in town. That includes procuring a new ship, with a galley large enough to actually store any inventory in.”

 

The guard chuckles, “I see, I see. You’ve come the wrong way around, too – but then I assume that perhaps you’ve happened upon some misfortune, along the coast?”

 

Nyx grimaces, in tune with the character he plays, “Imperial outposts all along the Lucian coasts did present some – difficulties, to put it lightly. Managed to take off in this, kindly borrowed, daysailer from Galdin Quay just before the waterways got shut down. We’ve had to navigate around some obstacles, but she’s proved a fine vessel, despite her size. That said, we come with here with nary a thing to our names.”

 

The guard hums, “Well, we’re glad you made it, and we’re certainly glad to have you. You’ll need to register for a permit to enter the city, and to declare your intentions for your visit. Once you leave, you’ll declare purchases, along with inventories, and be escorted out of the bay. I hope that won’t present a problem for you gentlemen?”

 

“Absolutely not,” replies Nyx, and tips a proverbial hat. “Very kind of you to assist us, sir.”

 

Nyx forges documents as though it’s of second nature to him.

 

He signs his assumed name, a sprawl of letters Prompto can’t make out, and declares their intent as “sea fare trade”. He hands all of the completed documents off to the customs official seated in the booth, and smiles amicably at her. She scans the pages into a large, humming machine in the corner of her booth. Momentarily afterwards, Prompto watches as they appear on the screen before the official. From Prompto’s position behind Nyx, he keeps his eyes firmly cast down, as soon as she looks their way.

 

“Gentlemen,” she says, and smiles politely, “Welcome to Altissia, the City on the Sea.”

 

*  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo, i extended this into another chapter. bc it felt right cutting things off once i'd established i'd be deviating so far from canon, and as i was meandering this into hell. but the thought hit me as i was writing them driving down towards caem: how did luna, who wasn't much ahead of the boys, manage to go from lucis to altissia? ferrying across wasn't an option, and i sincerely doubt the oracle had her own kingly secret yacht parked in the middle of nowhere.
> 
>  
> 
> nice plot hole you got there, tabata.
> 
>  
> 
> anyway, i'm obsessed with all things galahd and took a few liberties with the as of yet unpublished canon of things. hence why it got so damn long. but now - plot hole sufficiently filled in and covered. next stop on this au train of mine: altissia! finally.
> 
> as always, you can follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ddelline)


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